Before Now
by Smauglock The Great
Summary: John has some strange dreams about 'other lives' and 'Ring Bearers'. Then he finds out that life as he knows it isn't his first, and certainly not for many of his friends. Summary sucks, I know. Follows both Hobbit movies and book; mostly book, though. T just to be safe. No slash
1. Prologue

The Grey Havens; truly a magnificent place to behold. They were a land of eternal rest and peace, mainly inhabited by the Ring Bearers of the Third Age of Middle Earth. However, even the Havens had to end. The Valar wished to rebuild the world anew, so the Havens had to be cleared. Its inhabitants, however, were given a 'second chance' at life. A life without the Rings, without the Dark Lord looming over their heads… a normal, peaceful life.

It came to pass that the Day of Departure, as they called it, was upon them. Gandalf the White, Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel, Bilbo and Frodo Baggins gathered at the appointed place to depart into the next life.

"There is no assurance that you'll be in the same position you were before you came here." Elrond explained. "For all we know, I may be the richest man alive, or I may be the poorest."

"There is also no assurance that you will be the same when it comes to marital status." Galadrial said. "You may marry if you did not before, or you may remain single if you married. This is purely a chance happening, but it is as the Valar wish."

Lord Elrond departed first, then Lady Galadriel. They both passed peacefully into a glowing orb of light, smiling as their worries left them. Bilbo was to go next, but he still had a question for Gandalf.

"When we pass through, will we remember who we were and what we did?" The old hobbit asked.

"It's highly unlikely, Master Baggins," Replied Gandalf, "But still possible."

"Does it even work?" Frodo stared at the orb sceptically. "Will we really be transported into another life?"

The Istari chuckled. "Yes, I know it works. I tried it many decades ago on someone Bilbo might remember. He deserved another chance at life, one to atone for his monstrous ways, and I granted it to him."

"Will we find each other in this new life?" Bilbo asked.

"There will be a link between us, and, inevitably, we'll be able to find each other." Gandalf replied. "Now, Master Baggins, if you please."

Bilbo stepped forward into the light. Noticeably, his features softened and his smile widened as he disappeared peacefully into the orb, all 131 aging years passing away. Frodo followed, smiling the same smile the others did before.

Now it was Gandalf's turn. He looked into the orb and briefly saw the man he sent all those years ago. He had grown considerably, a mop of dark brown curls on his head and skin paler than the elves. His eyes, from what he could see, were paler than the ice in the northern mountains, but they still held the same fire of determination of his past self. The Istari smiled, pleased that he had done well in choosing that poor creature as he lay dying on the lake-shore, and stepped into the orb, willing to accept what the Valar had in store for him.

* * *

_I know this was kinda short, but it'll get longer later on. This is my first story here, so I hope it was good. I do not own any characters above._

_RAWR! -Smauglock_


	2. Chapter 1

John Watson was having another nightmare. It was no different than the others, but it still scared him considerably. The nightmare was of Afghanistan, and it was taking the usual course; the person calling his name shouted louder and louder until it rang in his ears, and then he'd wake up. Only, that's not how this one went.

The voice calling out _"WATSON!"_ slowly morphed into a deep baritone, one he knew all to well. The sands of war and flecks of blood formed buildings of familiar London, and upon the tallest one stood a man. The man was talking to John through a cellphone, telling him to watch him closely. He said one last thing:

_"Goodbye, John."_

Then, tossing the phone aside, he jumped. But in his fall, the man slowly morphed into something else. His skin turned fiery red and his eyes burned with hate and greed. The man's body grew to monstrous sizes, growing scaly and disfigured until in no loner looked anything like a man. The scenery changed once again; it was now a seemingly endless cave filled with immense amount of gold and other items, glowing in the light coming from the beast. The beast looked straight at John, and muttered something in a similar baritone as before, only this one more monstrous and with a hissing undertone:

_"Come now, don't be shy… Step into the light!"_

The creature blasted flames out of his mouth, and the raging inferno morphed back into his original nightmare; the sand of Afghanistan was flying, guns were firing, and the voice shouted out the final _"WATSON!"_, flinging poor John, gasping for breath and drenched with sweat, to the real world. He had never had this sort of reaction to a nightmare before in his life, and they certainly never woke up the sleeping form beside him.

"…John? What's wrong?"

"It-it's nothing, Mary… Just a-a nightmare…" John told his wife. "Go back to sleep."

"No, it's not nothing." Mary sat up, wincing slightly due to the growing bump in her stomach. "You've never been this tense about a nightmare before. There's something else, isn't there?"

He sighed. "There was… I saw, um, Sherlock… he jumped, and then he… God, how do I say this without sounding crazy?" He ran a nervous hand through his hair. "He turned into something not dissimilar to a… dragon. Then, said dragon tried to burn me alive."

"Sweetheart, it's just your mind playing tricks." She placed an arm around his shoulder and rubbed it gently. "It's not real."

"That's just the thing… It felt like one of my Afghanistan nightmares. Like I'd been there before, and experienced it first-hand…" John sighed again. "And, well, that's not the first odd thing that's happened in my dreams.

"There was a man; rather tall, long grey beard and grey clothes; asking me to go on an adventure. He referred to me by a strange name, can't remember it now, but that had the same familiar feeling too, like I've met him and had that same conversation with him." John looked at her. "There's something here I'm not getting, and I really, really want to know what it is before I'm convinced I've gone mad."

"Maybe Sherlock can help." Mary suggested. "He might not be an expert, but he's bound to know at least something."

He nodded slowly. "Alright, I think I'll visit him. After all, it's my day off and I've no way to spend it."

* * *

"…And that's it." John finished explaining his dream to his friend, Sherlock Holmes, at their once-shared flat, 221B Baker Street. Sherlock, who usually jumped straight to conclusions, paused for a long while in thought. John didn't see it, but the detective's eyes filled with remorse and regret.

Sherlock swallowed and said in a slightly shaky voice, "I have no clue as to what your dreams mean. Maybe it's something you ate, or something you read, or Mary was right with your mind playing tricks."

"Sherlock, come on, you've got to know something." The ex-army doctor suggested. "You always do."

"I'm not a dream expert; why don't you just go and consult one yourself?" Sherlock snapped, though somehow managing to control his volume. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm very busy at the moment." He stood and turned towards his bedroom.

"You were begging for a case and a gun to shoot when I came in!" John shouted, though not entirely surprised of his friend's abrupt behavior.

"Something just came up!" The detective slammed the door shut. The doctor took his leave and stormed out of the flat, hardly bothering with Mrs. Hudson on his way out.

On the other side of the bedroom door, Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed a number he rarely used. After a few tones, he hardly waited for a _"Hello?"_ and quickly blurted out, "He's having memory relapses."

_"Now now, brother mine, who is?" _The voice on the other end asked calmly.

"John, you git, John! He's remembering who he was... And, frankly, I'm not sure I like it." The detective huffed.

_"Ah, I see… He has to know eventually, Sherlock."_ The voice said.

"No, he doesn't, Mycroft!" Sherlock spat. "It's better if he doesn't know!"

_"No, it's not better like that. I can understand how much you've wanted to be accepted by someone other than me since… then, but keeping the truth from him isn't going to make things any_ _better."_ Mycroft said calmly. _"After all, it is as the-"_

"I don't give a damn about what the Valar wish! They've long since gone from this world, so why should we care about them?!" The detective hissed. "And don't give me that long-winded talk about how you're their oh-so-special-servant and only wish for the best! I'm not five years old, stupid brother, I don't need that talk!"

_"Sherlock Holmes, for shame. It seems as though your past personality is seeping through."_ His brother said in a slightly worried tone. _"Remember what happened last time?"_

Sherlock bit his tongue in anger. Why did stupid Mycroft have to remind him of that? "Sorry…" He muttered.

_"I'm sorry, too, for reminding you of that,"_ Mycroft sighed, _"But you must keep your temper. In other news, we only have one more to locate, and Manwae knows how long that's going to take, though I feel as though we're closer than before. I'd prefer it if you kept your wits about you until we found him."_

"One? I thought there was two…" Sherlock said, thinking about who they could have found.

_"Well, it was two, until about seven and a half months or so ago."_ He could practically hear Mycroft smirking. _"You should know who it is; you predicted they'd come, just not in the way that you might think. Now, if you'll excuse me, brother mine, I have some business to attend to. Goodbye."_ The elder Holmes hung up, leaving Sherlock alone to collect his thoughts.

* * *

Mycroft placed his phone down on his desk and swiveled in his chair until he faced the window behind him. "Poor Master Baggins," He began saying to himself. "I had hoped he'd be able to live his life peacefully without his old memories…"

He lifted his eyes skyward and said even quieter, "Manwae, it has been many a fortnight since you spoke to me. Perhaps brother mine is right, and you have passed from existence. But, if you haven't, please answer your servant's question: What am I to do about this? You gave us leave to come here, so you must have had a plan for all of us. Is there purpose behind their memory relapses, when Sherlock and I had every memory from when before given to us as soon as we came here?" Only outward silence greeted him. He stood, grabbed his phone and umbrella and he left his office. "I believe it is time for another little adventure, dear Bilbo. I'm sorry."

* * *

As the call ended, Sherlock threw his phone onto his bed and brought his knees to his face. He refused to allow himself to cry; he hardly cried unless it was the only thing he could do, and that moment hadn't arisen for months, at least; but he still sat there, contemplating his situation. _I_ _won't tell John until I have to…_ He thought, delving deep into his Mind Palace. _After all, who would want a monster like me for a best friend?_

* * *

_I do not own any characters above._

_RAWR! -Smauglock_


	3. Chapter 2

_Brief comment-responding section:_

_The Hobbit from 221B: Thank you; I hope I didn't make you cry too much…_

_ichigo-lover-1412: Don't we all wanna hug him? Also, stay tuned for Mycroft's former identity… :P_

* * *

"What the hell was his problem?" John mumbled as he walked away from 221B. "I just asked him a question, he didn't need to get all defensive about it!" Even though he was used to his best friend's somewhat truculent behavior, it didn't justify his random outburst. It was almost as if the detective was hiding something… John shook his head. What would he have to hide about a stupid dream with a dragon in it?

He was not paying attention to where his feet were leading him and wound up in the middle of a park. There was a playground teeming with children, roughly ages 5 to 10, all dressed up as pirates and sailors. John smiled, remembering suddenly how Mycroft had said Sherlock had initially wanted to be a pirate. _I can't stay mad at his friend forever,_ He thought,_ but I should at least give him some time to cool off._

All of a sudden, he felt strangely tired, and his legs felt like they'd give out any second. Sitting down on a nearby bench, he observed a group of the children 'steal' a 'treasure chest' (which was just a paper bag with the word "TREAZURE" scrawled across it, filled with an assortment of fake jewelery). The bag ripped suddenly, dropping the loot on to the boys' feet. "Aw," One said, tossing the bag aside, "That's the end to this bag."

_Bag End._

Those words crashed into John's mind like a hurricane. What was so special about them? He tried to focus and see where his train of thought led.

_Bag End. Grassy hills. Shire. Hobbiton. Hobbits. Baggins. Home.  
_

"Um, 'scuse me sir, but are you alright?" The ex-army doctor looked up to see a young boy staring at him with a strange sense of curiosity. The boy had bright green eyes, one of which was covered with an eye-patch, and a head full of auburn curls tumbling over his face. "D'you need help with anythin'?"

Despite the boy's best intentions, that only made matters worse. The boy's sudden appearance brought a new vision into his head, this one more than just a few words.

* * *

_A knock sounded on Mr. Baggins' door. "Now who could that be?" He wondered aloud, traversing through the tunnels. The rain that had lasted nearly all week had finally subsided, and Bilbo was thinking about gardening sometime soon. Opening the door, he found a young hobbit, probably in his late tweens, standing with a large sack of gardening tools.  
_

_"Can I help you?" Bilbo asked him._

_The hobbit nodded. "M'dad's out with a cold, so mum asked me to help with the gardenin'."_

_"Ah, yes; Hamfast Gamgee, was it?" Bilbo said._

_"That's right, sir." Hamfast replied. "D'you need any help with the garden today?"_

_Bilbo stuck his head out of the door and looked around. "I think just the bushes need a good trim, and the flowerbeds need to be tended to."_

_"Right, then, I'll get on it!" He smiled wide and ran off to the bushes. _

_"When you're done, come inside and I'll make you something for your work!" Bilbo smiled as he walked back inside. "Master Hobson certainly has a nice son; I'd want no other hobbits in all of Hobbiton to tend my garden over the Gamgees."_

* * *

"Sir, sir! Are you alright!?"

John sat straight up; he had apparently passed out earlier and his head fell to his knees. Nearly all the boys had gathered around him now, curious and slightly concerned looks on their faces. "Wha- wh-when did I pass out?" He asked the boy whom he spoke to earlier.

"After I spoked to you, sir." The boy said. "D'you need to see a doctor or somefin'?"

"Y-yes, actually, I think I do." John stood up. "What's your name?"

"Sammy."

"Well, Sammy, you and your friends can go back to your game, now." He looked over the mass of children. "Sorry for making you worry." He turned and walked away, a crowd of voices shouting "'Bye, mister!" behind him. He set off to someplace where he could hopefully get a medical opinion on this: St. Bart's.

* * *

Molly Hooper, a pathologist currently working at St. Bart's, wheeled a recently deceased body to the autopsy room. It was a shame he died; she and he were very close friends. When she came into the room, she found John standing off to a side.

"Oh, hello, John." She greeted, moving the gurney over to its usual spot. "What brings you here, then? On a case?"

"No, actually, I just… needed someone to talk to." John admitted. "Personally, I think I'm going insane. I just needed a medical opinion on that."

Molly chuckled. "Oh, John, I don't specialize in _that_ kind of illness, but I'll try. So, what gave you these suspicions?"

John told her about his dream, Sherlock's strange behavior, and the events in the park. She listened closely, but seemed particularly interested in these 'hobbits'. "How would you describe them?" Molly asked, unzipping the body bag. "Did they look unusual?"

"Not really; The one I saw had big, hairy feet and a funny name, but that was really all." The doctor said.

"And you said something about… Gamgees?" She asked.

He paused a while to retrace his words. "Well, yes, I did." John admitted. "Is that important?"

"No, not really; it just sounded familiar." Molly began examining the body.

The ex-army doctor looked at the deceased body. "Who's this?"

"Mr. Columban, or Mr. C, as I called him." She replied. "I've known him since I was a lot younger. Nice man; reminded me of Celeborn…"

"Who's Celeborn?" John asked.

"Huh?" Molly looked up, surprised and slightly worried. "I-I didn't say Celeborn."

"Yes, you did." He stated. "I heard you."

"I did not. I-I said that he reminded me of… m-my grandfather, yea, my grandfather." She was obviously bluffing.

John raised a skeptical eyebrow, but shrugged and said, "Alright, whatever you say. I guess I'd better get going, now; I'm sure Mary's wondering where I am. Do I seem insane to you, by the way?"

"Not as far as I can tell." Molly kept her eyes focused on Mr. Columban. "You should be good."

"Okay, then. Thanks for your advice, Molly." John grabbed his coat and walked out the door.

"Goodbye." She called over her shoulder. When he was gone, Molly buried her face into her hands and let out a sigh of relief. "God, I can't believe I almost let that slip. Mycroft would've killed me if I did." She looked up towards the harsh, florescent lights of the autopsy room and began saying to no one in particular, "But, then again, he's gotta know sometime soon; we all did. He'll wind up in the loony bin for gabbing on about hobbits and dwarves and the like if he doesn't…" She sighed again and continued looking over the deceased form of her friend. "Still, of all people, why'd the Valar have to choose us?"

* * *

_Brief note: No, Sammy and Mr. Columban did not have previous lives in Middle Earth. But Molly did…_

_I do not own any characters above._

_RAWR! -Smauglock_


	4. Chapter 3

_Brief comment-responding section:_

_ichigo-lover-1412: Yes, I do. :D Don't worry, you'll find out one really, really soon._

_Also, this chapter's pretty long and kinda jumps around a bit; it was either that or have a pretty short chapter and a nasty cliffhanger. I'm just being nice right now. :]_

* * *

"So, how'd it go?" Mary asked John as he walked back into their house.

"Eh, Sherlock got all defensive about it for some reason and hid in his room." John sat down at their dining room table. "I went to Molly afterwards for a medical opinion, but she was acting all weird, too. Maybe they just don't like me anymore, I dunno."

Mary scoffed. "Oh, come on, how could anyone dislike you after all you've been through with them?" She rubbed his back comfortingly. "You're hard to hate."

"Thanks; at least someone's is being honest." He smiled up at her.

A knock sounded from the front door. "I'll get it," John stood up and walked over. His mind began screaming at him, reminding him of the strange vision earlier, but he smacked himself (once out of Mary's sight) to clear his head and opened the door. "Sherlock? What're you doing here?"

"I-I came to… apologize for earlier, John." Sherlock's voice was lined with regret. "Sorry I snapped at you; I shouldn't have done that."

John, however, was skeptical of this. "Are you feeling alright, Sherlock?"

"Of course I'm fine, John." The detective rolled his eyes. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Okay, fine, you're fine. It's just that I'm not really used to you not acting like a pain in the arse." The doctor smirked. "Do you want to come in?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I need to go soon; you're house was just on the way over and so I decided to… make amends. That's what friends do, right? Make amends after a fight?"

"Well, yes, I suppose so, if that's what's needed to be done." John said.

"…I'm still your friend, right?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"Of course you're my friend, you git." John sighed. "You still need to be told that?"

"Well, it's just… I fear that our friendship may end soon." Before John could ask about this, Sherlock had spun on his heel and began walking towards the street. "Give my love to Mary for me." He called over his shoulder, waving nonchalantly and turning down the street.

John shook his head and went back inside. "Crazy git," He muttered.

"Who was that?" Mary asked him when he walked into the room.

"Sherlock; he wanted to apologize for earlier." John replied.

"Now, if anyone's crazy, it'd be him." She said.

John laughed, though his seemingly happy attitude was masking his worries that balled up in his insides and refused to let go.

_"I fear that our friendship may end soon._"

What did Sherlock mean by that? Why would their friendship end after all they went through? How could their friendship end after all they went through? _Maybe it was just regular old drama-queen Sherlock, _John thought,_ and he was just having an overreaction to all of this…_

_Or maybe he did have something to hide._

* * *

"There, I apologized. Happy?" Sherlock huffed, walking into Mycroft's office.

"Yes, actually." The elder Holmes motioned for him to sit, then took his own seat. "But was the foreboding sense of dread with the 'ending of friendship' really necessary?"

"I was just being truthful." The younger Holmes mumbled, taking a seat. "He didn't really react well to the last surprise I gave him."

Mycroft sighed. "While I'm sure you meant the best, it probably won't have the best effect on him. After all, it took me a while to convince him to go on that adventure, and look how that turned out."

"No, _you_ didn't ask _him_ out on that adventure." Sherlock stated. "That was that batty old wizard asking a hobbit to go on an adventure. Not you and him."

"I may have been slightly off, but I wouldn't call myself 'batty'. Also, if what you say is true, then you weren't the one who destroyed Dale and Erebor and all those lives." Mycroft said slowly. "That was ages ago. Why do you still feel guilty over that, when you yourself technically did not do it?"

"So I'm assuming you'll tell him?" Sherlock lowered his eyes, trying to avoid that question. "You'll tell him about everything… including me, who I was and what I did."

"One way or another, he'll find out." Mycroft said. "He can either find out from his memories, or from us. If we leave it to his memories, he won't know what's going on and that it's real, and blame it on nerves or something like that. If we tell him directly…"

"…He'll know exactly what it is and that it's true, right." The detective looked up. "But how will you convince him this is real? It was easy for me, I was just a child; and it was even easy to convince Molly that what she kept seeing was true though she was a bit older, but John is a responsible and rather stubborn adult. How-"

He stopped short as the lights went out suddenly. "Blasted wiring; I told them to get it fixed months ago." Mycroft grumbled, getting up and guiding himself to the door with his umbrella. "Stay here, Sherlock; I'll be back soon. We can discuss what to do later." The door opened, and the elder Holmes left.

Sherlock sat there for a moment, staring into the darkness, wondering how they'd convince John that this was all real. He then found himself unintentionally reliving the day he found out who he and his brother really were.

* * *

_10-year-old Sherlock Holmes, usually the smartest boy in his class, had received a F on his last test. According to his teacher, he had skipped half the questions and answered the other half with remarks like "I don't care" and "This is pointless". Mummy and Daddy Holmes had a talk with him when he came home from school that day._

_"It's not my fault I received low grades," The young boy argued, "It was on the Solar System. I hate the Solar System."_

_"Still, I want you reading up on it for one hour this afternoon," Mummy Holmes scolded. "Your teacher has agreed to let you retake the test on Monday, if you study hard for it." _

_"But Mum, the older kids are finally letting me play pirates with them this afternoon and they'll be done playing by the time I'm done studying!" Sherlock shouted. "I don't want to miss out on the game because I have to study for a test I've already taken!"_

_"Half-an-hour of studies, then you can play." Daddy Holmes told him. "When you get home, you'll make up for the other half-hour. Grab Mike and you can go study in the park. Deal?"_

_"Fine." Sherlock grumbled as he trudged upstairs to his brother's room. He flung __the door wide __ open and whined, "Myyyyyycrooooooft! Dad says you have to take me to the park right now!"_

_"Shut the door, I'll be out in a second!" Yelled Mycroft, who had not quite finished putting his trousers on. His brother did as he was told and trudged into his own room, where his dog, Redbeard, was sleeping peacefully on his bed. _

_"Just stay there, Redbeard." Sherlock whispered, pulling his shoes on. "One of the boys is allergic to dogs, so he won't like you very much. I'll be back soon, OK?" He grabbed his textbook and headed downstairs, where Mycroft was waiting for him. They were barely two steps out the door when Mummy Holmes came yelling at them.  
_

_"Don't let Lock get distracted, Mike!" She shouted. "He has to study!"_

_"Alright, Mum, I got it!" Mycroft shouted over his shoulder as they began the relatively short walk to the park (Seven minuets and thirty-one seconds at a walking pace, as Sherlock noted. If one sprinted the entire way, they could make it in about three minuets and twenty seconds)._

_Despite his older brother's best efforts, Sherlock was still __distracted on the walk over. He had been having these weird dreams for as long as he could remember, where he was a fierce, fire-breathing dragon called Smaug that lived in a mountain on top of a pile of gold he stole from dwarves. They seemed all fun and games, until you got to the nightmares. There was an unseen being lurking in the shadows, riddling his way out of Sherlock's sight. Then he would suddenly be flying over a little village on the lake, fire reflecting back in the pale waves of nighttime, when he would feel a sharp pain in his left side. He would fall down towards the lake-shore, and that was where he usually woke up. The previous night, however, he forced himself to sleep past that part.  
_

_As he lay on the lake-shore, a strange old man with a funny name (Gandalf; what kind of name was that?) came to him and made the pain go away. He said something about a second chance at life, but that was all he could catch before he woke up. Did those dreams mean anything?  
_

_"Hey, Sherlock, you're walking onto the street." Mycroft pulled him out of his thoughts._

_"Huh? O-OK." Sherlock walked back up into the sidewalk. "Sorry, I'm just… I don't want to do this."  
_

_"Oh come on, you don't want to study for anythng." Mycroft put his hands in his pockets, then stopped suddenly and patted all his pockets. "Damn it; I forgot my wallet. Wait here, I'll be right back." He ran back towards their house. They had traversed for about four minuets and one second; Sherlock calculated that it should take his bonehead of a brother about two minuets to sprint home and back again. He knew that if he walked forward for another twelve steps, he would come across a park bench where he could wait, so he did. He opened his book and mindlessly skimmed over the pages for about a minuet; Mycroft was grabbing his wallet right around then.  
_

_Sherlock heard a group of footsteps heading in his direction. Looking up, he saw the group of 12-year-old boys who agreed to let him play pirates that very day. The 'leader' of the group, Tom Valens, walked up to the 10-year-old and said, "Hey, Holmes, ready to play pirates?"_

_"Can't right now; Mum says I have to study." He replied, turning the page of his book. "I'll join you in a half-an-hour."_

_"Thought you took that test yesterday." Tom raised an eyebrow. "Miss it or something?"_

_"No, I just got a poor grade and need to retake it." Sherlock stated simply._

_Tom and the other boys began laughing at him. "Clever little Holmes isn't so clever at all, huh? Oh well, I guess you get something from your dad."_

_ "Dad_ _isn't __stupid, and neither am I!" __Sherlock scowled at them._

_The leader smirked. "Oh, right, sorry; that's your mum that's stupid."_

_Sherlock slammed his book shut. No one insulted his parents and got away with it! He threw the book down on the bench and stood tall, almost coming face-to-face with the older boys. His eyes turned fiery red and he said in a monstrous voice that was clearly not his own: "NOBODY, _NOBODY,_ MAKES FUN OF MY PARENTS!" This so surprised the other boys that they all ran away, screaming bloody murder. _

_"Sherlock! Sherlock!" A voice called behind him. Mycroft came running up and grabbed his little brother's shoulders. "Sherlock, what did you do!?"_

_The younger Holmes' eyes reverted to their normal hue, and his voice came out in a small squeak, "M-Mycroft! I d-didn't m-mean to, they-" He stopped and looked into his older brother's eyes. He had seen them somewhere other than on his face. He had seen them in a dream, not to long ago…_

_"Gandalf?" Sherlock whispered, surprising Mycroft greatly. His brother's face softened, and he whispered back, "Yes, Sherlock… Smaug… it's Gandalf."  
_

_Sherlock lunged forward and buried his face into his brother's shirt, crying heavily. Mycroft hugged him and rubbed his back reassuringly, saying, "It's alright, I'm here. I'm here." Afterwards, Mycroft bought Sherlock some ice cream to calm him down and explained their whole situation to him; about the four other people that were sent into this lifetime and how it was important that they found them in case they remembered who they were. They spent most of that half-hour talking about it, leaving a little bit of time to study. When they came home, after studying some more, Sherlock crawled into his bed with Redbeard and made a solemn vow to always protect people, and never take an innocent life ever again._

* * *

The lights flickered back on, and Sherlock was pulled out of his daydream. A few minuets later, Mycroft walked back into the room. "Why'd it have to be us, Mike?" The detective asked in a low whisper. "Why couldn't we just be our own selves and be done with it?"

Normally, the elder Holmes would have told his brother off for addressing him as 'Mike', but instead he stood next to the seated figure and said, "I don't know, Lock. I honestly don't know. But, if it wasn't us, someone else would have to have that burden; perhaps it's best it was us."

"But _why me?_ Why did you have to have pity on me as I lay dying? Why did I have to be like this and carry memories of bloodshed and hatred coming from that damned dragon?" Sherlock spoke through clenched teeth, trying to hold back tears. "Why does my best friend have to be my greatest enemy?"

"You're asking the right questions, but I only have the answer to one:" Mycroft knelt next to him. "I only had pity on Smaug because I saw the potential in him to be great. I saw the potential of a good friend and protector of lives. I saw you."

Sherlock looked up at his older brother and swallowed the tears back. "If this is a trick to make me feel better…"

"No, I assure you, it's not." The government official said. "It's the honest truth. The day I departed into this life, I asked the Valar to give me a chance to see that potential come through you and make the world a better place. I was a bit surprised at first that I was made your brother, but things worked out for the better in the end."

The detective sighed. "I suppose I've no choice to believe you on this. Now, can we get to what you called me here for so I can go?"

* * *

_Brief note: I think I made Mycroft a bit OOC-ish, but then again, it was just Gandalf peeking through him. I personally like brotherly!Mycroft, but that's just me. :]  
_

_I do not own any characters above._

_RAWR! -Smauglock_


	5. Chapter 4

_Brief note: Just re-watched Desolation of Smaug and was inspired to write another nightmare because reasons. It isn't even close to either the book or movie, but nightmares are basically twisted imaginations mixed with distorted memories, so…  
_

_Also, this chapter's a little bit longer than I originally had hoped; again, I couldn't decide where to end it._

* * *

_Another nightmare visited John as he slept. There was no mention of Afghanistan now; instead, he was walking down a giant stone tunnel to a glow in the distance. John's perspective when the nightmare started was a sort of out-of-body experience, and he noted that this dream-version of him had large, hairy feet, curly auburn hair, and wore strange archaic clothing. His face remained the same, so that's how he knew it was himself, and he slowly drifted back to a first-person perspective of the dream._

_John crept through the hall noiselessly, save the sound of his own voice._ _"Now you are in for it at last, Bilbo Baggins," he said to himself. "You went and put your foot right in it that night of the party, and now you have got to pull it out and pay for it! Dear me, what a fool I was and am! I have absolutely no use for dragon-guarded treasures, and the whole lot could stay here for ever, if only I could wake up and find this beastly tunnel was my own front-hall at home!"_

_Sadly, he did not wake up (much to both the dream and the real John's dismay) and kept walking until he came across a light. The light led to a cavern of sorts, filled with shimmering gold, and an immense rumbling sound coming from one of the piles of gold. The source of the rumbling was, of course, the dragon Smaug. It lay there, turned partly on one side, so that John- Bilbo?- could see the jewels and gold covering its underbelly. It was immense in size, as any respectable dragon is, and the poor hobbit stood transfixed in its rusty-colored glow._

_Almost unwillingly, Bilbo stepped forward out of the doorway and grabbed a large, two-handled cup, and turned to sneak back to safety. However, a massive paw was blocking the doorway, and the air around him became increasingly hot._

_"Well, well, little thief, thought you could steal from me?"_

_Bilbo whipped around and came face-to-face with Smaug, its burning orange eyes affixed on its small prey. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing would come out, save an odd little whimper._

_"Come now, has the little creature lost its tongue? Has it nothing to say before it dies?" Smaug seemed to grin at him._

_"I-I w-wish to say, O Smaug the Stupendous, that I only took this cup for but a moment." Bilbo stammered, dropping his former prize immediately. "I wished to see if Smaug the Magnificent's treasure was truly as formidable as they say it is, and truly, the tales fall short of its, and its owner's, greatness."_

_"Then why did you turn away as if you were to steal it from me?" Smaug turned its massive head to look at the small creature with one eye. "Your excuse is poor and ill-supported, little thief."  
_

_"I thought I heard something, but I suppose it was only you, O Smaug the Greatest of All Calamities." The hobbit said, slowly inching towards the small space in the doorway to make his escape._

_"LIES!" The dragon roared, pinning Bilbo to the wall with its free paw and trapping him. "Don't lie to me, I can tell when you're lying!" __One of Smaug's claws began to dig into his left arm, causing Bilbo to scream out in pain._

_"I-I wasn't lying!" Bilbo squeaked, trying to wiggle out of his imprisonment without tearing his arm off. "Please let me go, and I shan't disturb you again!" A voice began to echo through the halls, its owner unknown and unseen, which made the poor hobbit's sense of dread grow. "Please, please, just let me go!"  
_

_Smaug chuckled, sending its echos to ricochet throughout the cavern. "Oh, you won't go just yet. I have something to ask of you:_

_Afghanistan or Iraq?"_

"JOHN!" The ex-army doctor shot straight up, panting and sweating, with Mary clutching his arm and staring at him with concern. The bedsheets were tangled around him, and his heart was pounding in his ears. "Oh my God, John, you scared me! You kept thrashing around and mumbling to yourself!"

"Wha- I- they-" John stammered, falling back on his pillow. "That… definitely wasn't… Afghanistan…"

Mary inched closer to him, rested her head next to his, and began rubbing his arm encouragingly. "It's alright; it's just a dream. Whatever you're seeing, they're just dreams."

_I wish I could wholly believe you on that one…_ John thought. There was something more there than meets the proverbial eye here, and he was determined to figure out what.

* * *

It was half-past-11 when John received a text from Sherlock.

**Got a case.  
****Double-murder.  
Meet me at 221B.  
-SH  
**

He sighed, standing up from his chair and headed into the kitchen, where Mary was fixing herself a snack. "Mary, I'm going out for a bit. Sherlock's got a case."

"'Ave fnn." Mary replied through a mouthful of toast and jam. She swallowed and continued; "Just be back before dinner, alright?"

"Alright." John gave her a quick peck on the cheek. "I'll be back before then. If I'm not, then yell at Sherlock." Mary laughed and waved goodbye as the ex-army doctor headed out the door, quickly replying to his friend's text.

**On my way;  
****Mary wants me home**  
**before dinner, got it?****  
-JW**

John stuck the phone back in his pocket and walked to his old flat; he felt a bit restless and didn't want to sit down for more than two minuets. After a lengthy trek, he found Sherlock standing in the doorway of 221B.

"That took you long enough." Sherlock huffed.

"I didn't feel like driving today, and I don't have money for a cab." John replied. "Are we going now?"

Sherlock nodded and began walking down the street, John following close behind. They came to a house already lined with caution tape, with Detective Inspector Lestrade standing out front. "I was wondering when you'd come, Sherlock; you'll love this one." He led the duo inside the house to the second floor to a room marked with a bloody heart. "Landlady found 'em this morning," Lestrade opened the door. "The man's David Blight, her tenant, but we've no idea who the woman is; she doesn't have any ID on her, and we couldn't find anything in the house."

Laying on a blood-stained bed was a man and a woman arranged into the shape of a heart. Written above the bed, in blood, were the words: **_Truest LOve Lasts Eternally_**, signed with another heart.

John seemed taken aback by the sight of the place; even Sherlock stopped in his tracks before stepping towards the bed. He motioned to John to come over, and the two began to examine the bodies.

"Died at least twenty hours ago, at most twenty-four," Sherlock began mumbling to himself, examining the young female. "Twenty-nine years of age, played volleyball…" He began to murmur too quiet for anyone else to hear.

"At least thirty years or so," John looked over David. "Looks like he was… stabbed, repeatedly, in the chest, and I'd wager a guess that it was his blood that at least marked the door."

"Excellent deduction, John." Sherlock said, turning to Lestrade. "Did anyone hear anything last night? Gunshots, screams, windows breaking, anything?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No reports so far."

The detective paused to think, placing his fingers under his chin. "The murderer knew at least one of them and caught them having an affair together. He drew the heart with the man's blood and the words with the woman's blood, which leads me to believe that the murderer loved the woman. The murderer wanted to let his 'art' be known, so he marked the door with a heart in the man's blood, probably because there was too little blood left in the woman."

"How could you possibly know that?" Lestrade asked, a mix of awe, fear and sorrow on his face.

"First of all, there' s more blood underneath the woman than the man, and more blood went into the writing than the heart, so that should be obvious. There's a trail of blood, which the murderer tried to clean up but failed miserably, leading from the man's body to the door. There's also-"

"Okay, Sherlock, I believe you." The detective inspector headed for the door. "We'll find out who the woman is and interrogate her friends and relatives, along with David's and find our killer. Let's get out of here; it reeks." He opened the door and stepped outside.

Sherlock turned back to John, who was staring intently at the message on the wall. "John, let's go."

"Sherlock, there's something here." John stepped forward and began picking at the blood on the wall. "There's… something here…"

"John, you're disturbing the evidence, stop." The detective took a step and was about to intervene when he saw what John was picking at. Behind the unusually large 'O' in 'LOve', there seemed to be a piece of paper held there by the blood.

John managed to peel it off without tearing it too much, and quickly read over it. "Sherlock, explain this," He handed the paper over to his friend, a look of shock on his face. The paper read:

_He has to know  
about his dreams,  
about the people in them,_  
_about you, Sherlock,  
he has to know  
sooner or later.  
I'll be watching  
to make sure you tell him._

Sherlock looked up from the paper with a slightly guilty look on his face. "John, I…"

"So there was something about my dream that you knew about." John's voice was barely above a whisper. "You little sh-"

"It doesn't matter, John, not anymore." Sherlock said simply, not meeting his friend's gaze.

"What do you mean it doesn't matter?!" John shouted. "You lied to me, and I'm supposed to believe that it doesn't m-"

The detective clamped a hand over the ex-army doctor's mouth. "Please, John, you sound like a teenager being cheated on by their girlfriend. Now, the reason why it doesn't matter is because… I'll tell you about the dreams, and my… secret. I won't like it, and neither will you, but you have to know. It's like they've constantly been telling me, so I'll finally go through with it. Understand?" John nodded and Sherlock took his hand off his mouth. "Good; I suggest bringing the paper with you. You'll need it."

John folded the paper and placed it in his pocket. "Who's 'they'?" He asked as his friend pulled out his phone. "Who's been telling you to tell me about my dreams?"

"You'll know soon enough." Sherlock put the phone to his ear, then began to speak after a while. "It's me… He's curious now, about the dreams… Of course I already agreed!… I won't like it, but I'm doing it anyways… Oh, I'm sure you're just _bursting_ with pride, stupid brother… Can you still, you know, do the thing?… Good. We might need that… No, he already has a previous engagement. It'll have to be seven… You _sure_ you want to bring her along?… Well, I suppose you're right. Laters." He shoved the phone back in his pocket.

"Mycroft? He's in on this?" John asked as they exited the crime scene, clearly picking up on Sherlock's irate tone in the phrase 'stupid brother'. "Who else do I know that's keeping secrets from me?"

"Just me, him, Molly, and whoever left that note." Sherlock said_._ "He also wants Mary to hear what has to be said; he says you both deserve to know."

John nodded, sighing inwardly. _What could be so important that they want both me and Mary to hear? It's just a dream, right?  
_

* * *

_Brief note: Keep the note John finds stuck on the wall in mind; it's important.  
_

_I own none of the characters above._

_RAWR! -Smauglock  
_


	6. Chapter 5

John and Mary walked into 221B, the appointed place of meeting. Already in the flat were Sherlock and Molly; they were waiting for Mycroft to come to begin their explanation. Not a word was spoken; John just sat in his old chair and stared at Sherlock, almost in a threatening manner. Sherlock did not meet his eyes, but shifted uncomfortably in his chair and stared at either his feet or the ceiling.

_What could he be hiding?_ John thought. _What could it be that's so important to him?_

_Why did he have to remember?_ Sherlock stared at the ceiling. _Manwae, I know I've disrespected you and denied your presence before now, but you are the only one who can cause this, so you have to be up there, somewhere. Why does he have to remember?_

The door opened and all eyes went to Mycroft as he stepped in. "Ah, good. Everyone's here. We can begin."

John stood slowly and walked over to Mycroft. "Okay, then, tell me: What have you been hiding? What have you all been hiding from me?"

Mycroft stayed silent, but his eyes fixed on someone behind the doctor. "John," Molly spoke up. "The dreams you've been having, they aren't just dreams. They're memories; memories of another lifetime."

John turned to look at her. "Are you kidding? This isn't some bloody children's book!"

"No, it's not." Molly continued. "Please try to understand. I had to go through this, too, and I had many more memories to relive. The person you are in your dreams is the person you were in another life. Can you remember anything from then?"

"Only what I've told you: There was a dragon, someone referred to as a hobbit… and a brief vision of spiders on the way over."

"You didn't say anything about the spiders…" Mary whispered into her husband's ear.

"Didn't want to worry you." John said to her, then turned back to the other three people in the room. "So… that was all… real?"

Mycroft spoke up. "I know it's hard for you to understand, but it's the truth. You are remembering these things for a reason, though that reason is still unknown, so it is imperative that you know what is going on."

"Alright, but why bring Mary here? Not that I'm against her knowing but…" He stopped. "Did she have a past life, too?"

"No, she didn't." Molly spoke up again. "There were only six… people, let's just say… to be brought into the next life that we know of. Gandalf the White, Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond, Bilbo Baggins, Frodo Baggins, and…"

"And?" John raised an eyebrow.

"…And the dragon, Smaug." She finished quietly, and John noticed Sherlock tense at the mention of that name. "We only know five out of the six's reincarnations, however."

"Who are the five that you know of?" Mary asked.

"Mycroft was Gandalf the White, a nomad of sorts and a noble Istari, or what is commonly known as a 'wizard'; I was Lady Galadriel, Elven ruler of the forest of Lothlorien; you, John, were Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit of the Shire, and… Sherlock was… Smaug." The pathologist stated.

John tensed up at the last statement before realizing something was amiss. "Wait a minuet, you only said four."

"I did?" Molly reran what she said in her head. "Oh, right, sorry. The last one we know of we believe to have been Frodo Baggins, who was Bilbo's second-cousin… He's your son, John, Mary. Hamish was Frodo."

"Oh my God…" Mary put a hand over her stomach, as if to protect the small life inside from harm.

"Why can't I remember them?" John asked sadly, out of the blue. "Why can I only remember dragons and… and hate, and only a small part of peace can peek its way through?"

"That, John, is only natural." Mycroft stated. "It takes a long time for memories to resurface naturally, although it can be sped up by… other means. It is rather painful, and there may be a side-effect of optical illusions for a short period of time, but-"

"Do it."

Everyone in the room stared at John. "Do it." He repeated. "I want to remember. Call me stupid, call me anything, but… if this _is_ real, then I want to remember it."

"Alright; take a seat." John did as Mycroft told him, and the government official knelt next to him. "Are you ready?"

"Yes." The ex-army doctor nodded.

Mycroft took in a deep breath and, murmuring something in a strange language, placed a hand on John's forehead. John immediately tensed up, squeezed his eyes shut, and gripped the arms of the chair tight enough for his knuckles to go completely white. His legs started jerking this way and that, and his mouth dropped open in a silent scream. Mycroft winced, but kept his hand on John's forehead and continued murmuring.

"Is he going to be alright?" Mary asked Molly, the pair of them standing behind Sherlock's chair. Molly nodded slowly, tears beginning line her eyes as she stared at the now-empty chair in front of them. Sherlock had moved over to the window and began to stare out of it, no doubt feeling guilty of his past actions.

* * *

Inside John's head, visions were whizzing past his vision and storing themselves in his memory. There were terrible things; trolls that threatened to eat him and the company of dwarves he traveled with alive, goblins that threatened to kill them, a creature called Gollum trying to riddle himself a meal, a Ring that slowly consumed his very being, more goblins riding fierce wargs and chasing them up trees, spiders trying to catch and eat them, and the dragon asleep on a treasure hoard. They burned themselves deep into the place where all his fears went, a place that only housed a few notions before now.

But, though there were many bad things, there were wondrous things there, too. There were the rolling hills of a place he once called home, the warmth of Bag End and its food, the strange old wizard that would come by on a midsummer's eve and blow fireworks in the sky, the feeling of exhilaration when he first joined Thorin's company, the smile of his dear Frodo and his young friends and the faces of awe and astonishment that they made when he would recount a story of his, the peace that found him when the Ring was no longer in his possession, the time he spent in Rivendell, and the time that he spent in the Grey Havens. These memories went to the happiest place in his mind, where he could easily access them and recount them again and again.

He thought they were done, the visions, but one more came. It was a dim light in the distance, slowly growing and burning brighter. Then, all of a sudden, it flashed before his eyes in the form of a menacing, fiery eye that struck fear into his very being.

* * *

John's own eyes snapped open, and he almost fell forward into his lap, having to clutch his trembling knees with shaking fingers. He heard hasty footsteps come near him, but he hadn't the strength to push himself up just yet. He felt arm's clutch him, and Mary asking "John, are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine…" His voice came out in a shaky whisper, his breaths coming in small bursts of air. "J-Just… a m-moment…" The color slowly returned to his hands and face, and he was able to push himself back up. However, he wasn't quite sure of what he was seeing.

Kneeling were Mycroft should have been was Gandalf, and standing where Molly should have been was Galadriel. Sherlock's chair was empty, but a figure stood next to the bright window, so it was a good bet that that was him. John blinked once, twice, thrice, then smacked his temple with the heel of his hand to try and clear his vision.

"Whatever you're seeing, that's normal." Molly-Galadriel reassured him. "It'll wear off soon."

"R-right…" John stood up on shaky legs and approached the window. As his sight slowly adjusted to the light streaming in, he saw a tall figure with large, russet-red-and-gold wings sprouting from his back, and a long spiked tail peeking out from underneath a familiar coat. Out of a mop of familiar brown curls protruded a set of horns, all pointing backwards. The ex-army doctor finally gathered enough courage to speak to him.

"…Sherlock?"

He tensed, then slowly turned around from the window. John noted bright russet and gold scales covered his neck and cheek, and his eyes no longer shone blue and green. Sherlock's eyes were fiery red with slitted pupils, though the ex-army doctor had never seen them so ashamed. The dragon-detective looked at John and said in a low whisper, "Now you see me as I truly am, John… If you were to run now, never to see me again or even be my friend, I won't hold it against you."

John was slightly taken aback, but the rage that had hidden with his memories that he never got to express during his previous life-time erupted. "YOU!" He shouted, startling everyone. "It's all your fault! It's your fault that I ran out my door, that Thorin and Fili and Kili died the way they did, that Frodo had to suffer the weight of the Ring…" Tears began to well in the ex-army doctor's eyes as Sherlock backed away. "It's your fault that I'm even here now yelling at you! You stupid dragon! If you never came, then I wouldn't have to worry about this, and John Watson could live a normal life! If you never came, my life as Bilbo Baggins of the Shire would have never been… unexpected…" Sherlock now slowly inched closer and took another look at his friend as the words slowed down. The once-hobbit clenched his teeth and balled and un-balled his fists, staring at Sherlock with hate and malice, but with the slightest tinge of… happiness?

"…Both times, now and then, as Sherlock and Smaug, you made and broke my life at the exact same time. And I don't even know what to say to you." He took a deep breath. "You killed many people, have the fullest of capabilities to do it again, and yet… Oh, damn it all." John pulled his arm back and full-on decked Sherlock in the face, pushing him back into the window. "That's for lying to me _now_!"

Sherlock regained his balance and braced himself as John kicked him in the ribs with incredible amount of strength, causing him to fall into his desk. "_That's_ for killing all those people _then_!"

The detective stood once more, preparing himself for any blow that may strike any part of his body. What he did not expect, however, was John running up and hugging him. "And _this,_ if for making both my lives the best they could be, you stupid, pompous git."

* * *

A dark figure stood in a dark room, watching the whole thing play out before him on security cameras he managed to tap into. It wasn't easy; meddling Mycroft always made things worse. His lips curved in a smile as he watched Sherlock get smacked around by his friend. He re-winded it and watched that scene again and again; he would watch the rest later. A long-forgotten language came from his parted lips as he spoke in a near-whisper:

_"My my, looks like he is finally getting what came to him." _The figure chuckled as he watched Sherlock get kicked again. _"Ooh, Mithrandir's brother certainly has made a mess of things now. I suppose at one point of time I would try and break it up, but… I have a new purpose now. Yes, yes, just keep looking for the sixth one, and you will play right into my hands. Then, ooh then…!"_ He chuckled once more before shutting the screen off. Oh, the Valar would be angry with him, but who cared? It was their fault his past self was never properly explained to him, so he decided to have a little fun with those who did remember._ "This is going to be so much fun…"  
_

* * *

_Dun dun dun! Cliffhanger! :D I'm very evil.  
_

_Anyhoo, that aside, can you guess who the figure is (Sherlock or Hobbit character)? :]_

_I own none of the characters above._

_RAWR! -Smauglock._


	7. Chapter 6

**_This Author's Note is imperative to knowing what the heck is going on in this chapter! I would seriously suggest you read at least the second paragraph of it._**

_Brief Note: Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry for getting this out so late! I would've gotten this out at least a week earlier, but school and work are such pains in the ass…_

_I decided to time skip a few days after John found out; it was just so much easier for me to write. Don't worry, I will go back in a flashback or something and cover the rest of it._

_Also- Anonymous user Black Night- You little…you guessed my ingenious plan! Mwahahahaha!  
_

_Peace out.  
_

* * *

Another crime for Sherlock with an unusual murder weapon within two days- Christmas had come early for our favorite detective. The previous weapon had been an axe to the back of the head, this one was a bow and arrow to the back. Both of the victims had been murdered in the same place; it was private property with tons of green grass and rolling hills. The owner of the house was out of the country at that time and was eliminated as a suspect.

Sherlock was looking over the arrow at Bart's, confounded by its uncanny sense of familiarity. John was off to the side examining the victim, who died from a lucky shot between the ribs and through the heart. Molly stepped in with the previous murder weapon, the axe, and set it down next to Sherlock. "Thank you, Molly." He mumbled, bringing the arrow closer to the axe and comparing them side by side. "No, no, no, no… it's all wrong! I can't find any similarities between them!"

John stood and approached the first murder weapon. "That looks like… no, that can't be right…"

"What does it look like?" Sherlock turned to look at him.

"…It looks like an axe one of the dwarves in Thorin's company used." John lowered his voice. "But that can't be right, can it?"

"And, now that I think about it," Molly delicately picked up the arrow. "This looks of elvish make. Whoever's doing this must be trying to tell us something."

"Oh come on, how did I miss that?" Sherlock grumbled.

"To be fair, you never really saw any elves and, well, you burned all the dwarves' axes." The detective flinched at the memory John's words brought to mind. "Sorry."

Sherlock waved a hand to show he was fine, then looked up at Molly. "_Do you think it could be the last of the Departed?_" He asked in a long-forgotten tongue.

"_Since when did you speak Elvish?_" She asked him.

"Mycroft." He rolled his eyes.

Molly sighed. "_It's possible, though unlikely. The only other one we know of that departed is Lord Elrond, but I don't believe that he would be causing all this violence._"

"I heard 'Elrond', what are you talking about?" John demanded. "I can't speak Elvish, you know."

"Well, if I wasn't speaking Elvish, do you _really_ think I'd want you to know what I was saying?" Sherlock asked. "Hobbits can sometimes be _so_ thick."

"And dragons can sometimes be _so _arrogant." The doctor retorted, grabbing his coat. "I'm going out for some air; smells too much like death warmed over in here." He exited the room, leaving the former-elf and former-dragon to examine the weapons.

"_Why did you have to say that?_" Molly asked, in Elvish. "_He was just asking a question._"

"_I haven't quite gotten back at him for punching me in the face and kicking me in the ribs yet._" Sherlock replied calmly. "_Anyways, getting back to the murder, is there any possible way of knowing if there was another person who departed?_"

"_Like I said, it's possible, but unlikely. They'd have to hold a powerful magic, but even then there weren't many who held that._" She examined the arrow more closely. "_It seems to be of…Rivendell make…you don't think…?_"

"_It's possible, but unlikely._" He quoted her, taking another look at the arrow and the axe. "_Whoever was at least behind the murder was from Rivendell and had seen dwarfish axes from…_" He looked closely again at the axe's hilt. "_…the Blue Mountains, according to this maker's mark. I'm assuming that he was and still is in a position of high power, since he was able to orchestrate the murders so perfectly._"

"_You seem content on suggesting Lord Elrond to be the one behind all this._" Molly pointed out.

"_It's the only logical solution!_" Sherlock huffed, setting the axe down. "I'm going out, seeing where John went." He switched back to English as he picked up his coat and scarf. "Hold down the fort for me until I get back, please."

"Yea, okay." Molly picked the axe and arrow up and set them on a side table until they could further be examined. Sherlock left, leaving the pathologist alone with her thoughts.

* * *

John walked aimlessly down the street, going wherever his feet dared to take him. It just so happened that his feet took him to an alleyway with a few homeless people sitting and standing along the walls. One of them, a teenaged girl, held out an old, battered tin cup and said, "Money for the poor, Doctor Watson?"

He turned towards her, pulled out a few coins and dropped them in her cup, saying, "Okay, what's up?"

"Got somefin' for ya. Don' know who brough' it- couldn' see 'is face- but it sure is 'eavy." She placed down her cup and moved a few trash bags and newspapers from the floor behind her and pulled out a long parcel. "Said it was special, 'e did, and tha' you was the only one 'oo could 'ave a look at it."

"Thank you, ma'am." John took the parcel from her.

"Don' mention it." She smiled briefly and picked up her cup and went straight back to her routine. "Money for the poor?"

He smirked at her and left the alleyway, half hiding the parcel in his trousers under his coat. He then left and began walking back to Bart's, only to run into Sherlock on the way back. "I got something from your Homeless Network- apparently, it's 'special'."

Sherlock nodded. "To Bart's, then." The duo turned and went back to the hospital room they were stationed in earlier, Molly still sitting there faithfully and 'holding down the fort'. "So, John, what did the Homeless Network give you?"

"This." John pulled out the parcel and set it down on the table. He unfolded the paper and stopped dead when he saw what was inside it.

Inside the parcel was John's old sword, Sting, and a note- _Did you miss me, Bilbo?_


	8. Chapter 7

John's now-trembling hands picked up the note. He re-read it, over and over and over again, but it still said the same, ominous message that it always had. "Wh-what the… H-how did they… _Where_ did they…" He set the note down and picked up Sting, his hand tracing the Elvish etchings made so very, very long ago. "Oh, God, I feel sick…" He dropped the sword, and it fell on the table with a loud _clang. _The ex-army doctor propped his head up on his hands, breathing rapidly with beads of sweat falling down his face.

Molly sensed his distress and lead him over to a chair, making sure it wasn't near any of the deceased. Her eyes held the same fear and confusion, though she was a bit better at masking it. "I don't know where they got it," She said shakily, taking another look at the sword. "But this _is_ Sting, or at least an Elvish sword made to look exactly like it."

"How could you know that?" Sherlock asked, looking at the sword with interest.

She gave him a "Are you serious?" look and said, "I was _there_ when they forged the original, and I'm pretty sure I'd be able to determine one of my own kin's swords." A disinterested "Mm," was all she got as a response.

"H-How did-" John managed to stammer out. "How did they know?"

"Just what I've been telling Molly-" Sherlock turned to face his friend. "I believe that Elrond is behind this."

"E-Elrond?!" John gave a weak laugh. "No, no I don't think he'd do this."

"Oh come on, use your head and remember what I said earlier." The detective sighed.

"You were talking in _Elvish_ earlier, you git." John rolled his eyes.

"Your fault for not listening, then. Now, the most recent murder weapon was an arrow of Elvish make– Rivendell, to be precise. Where was Elrond from?"

"Rivendell, but that doesn't-"

"Oh, yes it does. The axe had a maker's mark from the Blue Mountains, and you said that it looked like an axe one of Thorin's company carried. Where did Thorin live after I kicked him out of Erebor?"

"The Blue Mountains, but what does that-"

"I'm getting to that. Where did you stay after finding the troll hoard in which you found your sword?"

"Rivendell, but he-"

"-wouldn't have had any problem getting his way. Think about it- Molly and Galadriel both act as intercessors for those who need help, Mycroft and Gandalf are both git- I mean people who keep a watchful eye over the world, you and Bilbo were both skeptical to adventures at first, then couldn't get enough of them," A small smirk crept over Sherlock's face as he mumbled, "and both _really_ like flowers, may I add…"

"And Sherlock and Smaug are both greedy hoarders who are full of themselves and get addicted to shit, I get it! _[A/N: Seriously, though, I can't be the only one to make those connections, can I?]_" John stood up. "But what does _any of __that_ have to do with Elrond?"

"Elrond, from what I've heard, was a powerful and just leader who held great influence over his people." Sherlock explained, still a bit miffed over John's comment. "He would still maintain, to a certain degree, his influencing powers and must have believed he was doing this for a just cause."

"What, so he's crazy, too?"

"Probably."

"Okay…" John bit his lip. "So we're looking for a most likely insane person who is excellent at influencing people… Who would fit into that-" He stopped mid-sentence. "Molly, could you hand me that note again?"

"Huh? Oh, yea." Molly picked up the note and handed it to him. "Here."

"Thanks…" He read the note again, and again, and again, then looked up at Sherlock. "I have a feeling of who this might be."

Sherlock stared at him. "How?"

"Think about it- you two and Mycroft were able to sense that I myself was Bilbo _and_ that Hamish is Frodo. If you could do it, I see no reason as to why he couldn't." John explained. He was about to continue when Sherlock cut him off.

"So you're suggesting that this person has met us before?" The detective asked.

"Yes, I am. Now, who's a crazy, highly influential person that we've both met and has used the phrase 'Did you miss me' before?"

"I don't know any-" Sherlock stopped. "Y-you don't think…?"

John nodded. "Moriarty."

* * *

_Bit of a short chapter, this was, but they'll get longer, I promise. :)_


	9. Chapter 8

_Moriarty is Lord Elrond._

_Lord Elrond is Moriarty._

_It doesn't make any sense!_

_Yes, it does!_

_No, it doesn't!_

_YES!_

_NO!_

_"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?"_

The detective opened his eyes. He had unknowingly slipped into his mind palace, leaving an irate John and a scared-looking Molly behind to discuss what the hell to do about their new-found knowledge.

"What? Oh, um, where were we?"

"We _were_ about to contact your brother and see if he had any clue as to where Moriarty was, but I left my phone a home on accident and Molly doesn't have his number, so we need your phone." John responded irritably.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and whipped out his phone, punching in his brother's number. A few tones, then "_Sherlock, I hope this is important._"

"It is important. We've figured out who the last one is."

"_Do you mean Lord Elrond?_" He didn't even wait for the younger Holmes to respond before asking, "_Who is he?_"

"…Moriarty."

A cup was heard smashing in the background, and the elder Holmes was heard saying "_Damn that infernal thing…_" through what Sherlock deduced as Mycroft's hand over the receiver. The hand was taken off, and he shouted, "_What in Manwae's name do you mean Moriarty?!_"

"Exactly what it sounds like. Oh, and _do_ keep your voice down; wouldn't want anyone to know about then."

An exasperated sigh escaped the government official. "_I'm sending cars over to Bart's and the Watson's residence. I want to speak to you all in private. Do. Not. Leave. That. Hospital. Understand?_"

"Fine." Sherlock hung up, not waiting to hear what his brother would say, and faced John and Molly. "Well, _that_ went well!" He said sarcastically.

"What happened?" Molly asked.

"He's sending cars to pick us and Mary up, and we're not to leave Bart's or he'll have our heads." The detective responded dully, opening a window which led to a fire escape.

"And, let me guess, you're not going to listen?" John put his face in is hand.

Sherlock put one foot out the window and smirked, "What else would I do? Mycroft used to send me to my room when he was 'in charge' and I was 'bad'. He never counted on the window, though." With that, he stepped out of the window and down the fire escape.

* * *

The phone went dead in Mycroft's ear. He turned it off and sighed; Lord Elrond, a close friend of old, was one of England's biggest threats? Nothing made sense. But, then again, he was a thousand-some-odd-year-old wizard in his past life who traveled with elves and dwarfs and hobbits to destroy a ring in a fiery mountain. So, sense was out of the question.

Concern wasn't, though. He stepped carefully over his broken teacup (he would have someone pick that up later) and over to his computer hardwired with near every surveillance camera in the country. With the push of a key on the keyboard, he brought up the cameras around St. Bart's. Lo and behold, he found Sherlock sneaking away from he hospital on a fire escape.

Mycroft picked up his phone and called one of the cars he hadn't sent out. "Yes, yes, I know… Look, Sherlock's just left Bart's against my orders. I need you to follow him and bring him here… South, I believe… Thank you." He hung up and sighed once more. "Just for once, Sherlock," He muttered to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, "can you not act like a bloody child?"

* * *

_Yep… another short one… Blah. *facedesk* _

_Well, on a positive note, school's almost over for me, so I might be able to write a bit more! :D_


End file.
